Lifeline
by weepingangelofnewnewyork
Summary: Bucky Barnes becomes the Winter Soldier and tries to remember his life before. "The world changes, but he stays the same. And it is driving him insane. So they start wiping his memories." Stucky (Steve/Bucky) friendship. One-shot.


_DISCLAIMER: All the characters belong to Marvel. I own nothing._

 _~Xx_

* * *

He opens his eyes to a world of freezing white. And suddenly, a tsunami of pain hits him like an unforgiving wall. He moans in agony and looks carefully down at the source of the pain: his left arm. It is gone from the elbow downward, ripped flesh hanging off in ghastly red ribbons. Blood gushes from the stump in a pulsing river.

He remembers a train. Steve's arm, reaching out to grab his. Then Steve's voice, yelling his name, is lost to the winds as he falls.

He tries to crawl forward through the deep snow, but he is battered and bruised and the agonizing pain is unendurable. His head begins to feel light and he is so weary. Just before he submerges into blissful oblivion, he sees an unfamiliar, bespectacled face looking down on him, and he hears his name.

"Sergeant Barnes."

###

When he wakes again, he is lying on a cold, metal table surrounded by faceless doctors holding wicked knives and needles.

"The procedure has already started," says a familiar voice. It is the bespectacled stranger. His eyes travel down to his left arm. Panic rises in him when he sees them cutting it off at the shoulder. He tries to stop them, and one of the needles gets too close and pricks him.

###

He lifts up his hands in horror. In place of his flesh and blood and bone arm, there is a smooth, strong, metal one.

"You are to be the new fist of HYDRA," says that voice with unmistakable pride.

There is a thin, ugly doctor watching him and writing on a clipboard, as if he were some type of experiment and not a human being with feelings and thoughts and emotions. Angry, he grabs the doctor's throat with his new metal hand and crushes the life out of him while the other doctors scramble to sedate him with another cruel needle. Where is Steve? He needs to see a friend.

Instead, he sees that bespectacled face that he associates with terror and pain leaning over him, and hears that voice saying, "Put him on ice."

The next face he sees is his own, reflected in the glass window of the cryo chamber, frosting over. He watches his eyes closing and hangs on to the one lifeline he can think of: Steve. He has never felt so alone.

###

When they wake him up, he trains. They train him to be a fierce fighter, an emotionless killer. Then he is sent on missions, to kill this person or that one. But each time they take him out of cryo, the world has changed more and more. The women's skirts get shorter and they start wearing pants like a man's. The cars move more quickly and begin to look futuristic and dangerous. Then he sees helicopters, whirling and hovering. The world is changing, but he is staying the same. But to him, he has just fallen off the train yesterday, and he remembers Steve's face as clearly as he had twenty, thirty, forty years ago. The world changes, but he stays the same. And it is driving him insane. So they start wiping his memories.

###

The pain is excruciating, and he can barely focus. But he doesn't want them to change him into someone, something that he is not. So he clings to all the memories that he can. James Buchanan Barnes. Steven Grant Rogers. Punk. Jerk. I'm with you till the end of the line. He remembers names and faces and people and places. But after every wipe, he remembers just a little less.

###

Then one day, he can't remember his own name any longer. The past is a fuzzy blur, all he knows is that he has been alive since almost the beginning of time. But he remembers one name, no face to go with it, just a name. Steven Rogers.

Now he is training incredibly young girls how to fight and kill without mercy, and he remembers that name. It becomes a lifeline again, the last piece of himself. He says that name over and over, with every punch he lands and every knife he throws. Steven Rogers. Steven Rogers. Steven Rogers. He never wants to forget it. But eventually, he does.

###

He drifts in and out of reality with no purpose. He has become what HYDRA always wanted. He can complete every mission, follow every order, kill anything without the slightest shred of regret. He is the fist of HYDRA.

Then one day, he is ordered to kill a man on a bridge. It is the normal routine: kill in any way necessary, kill whoever is in the way.

But his target is experienced. His mask falls away, and a look of shock and pain and disbelief seizes the man's face. He recognizes him.

"Bucky?" The man asks in a voice full of wonder and hope.

And he recognizes that voice. Not the name, but the voice. And it makes him feel something long repressed.

But he is not supposed to feel.

"Who the hell is Bucky?" he asks hatefully. He is not supposed to feel. His is merciless. He is a machine. He is the fist of HYDRA.

But that voice makes him feel like he belongs in the world again. Like maybe, he has a purpose after all. And for the first time in his life, he doesn't complete his mission.

###

He doesn't want to give his mission report. He sits at the machine silently, but they haven't wiped his memories yet. They are trying to figure out what went wrong, but he won't tell them. He remembers the man on the bridge. He knew him somewhere in his past.

A scientist tries to poke him with a needle, but he doesn't want to forget. He throws the scientist across the room without even standing up, and suddenly there are twenty guns trained on him. He glares back stubbornly, unflinchingly. You can kill me but I will die remembering.

A man walks quickly into the room with a team of armed men, and everyone treats him with respect. This must be his current master. He has had many; he doesn't care.

"Sir, he's erratic. Unstable," someone says, but he has never felt so stable in his life. For the first time, he _remembers_ something.

The man stops in front of him. "Mission report."

He doesn't even open his mouth.

"Mission report. Now."

When he doesn't answer, his master comes closer to him and bends down, looking him closely in the eyes. He stares back without moving, rage pent up inside him. His master delivers a short, stinging blow to the side of his face. Maybe his master knows who he saw.

"The man on the bridge," he says at last. "Who was he?"

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment," his master answers. He doesn't remember that. Did he remember the man that time, too? Maybe that's why they'd wiped him again. They had no right. He feels like a hollow shell, or a feather on the wind, going whichever way the wind pushes it. He doesn't want to feel that way. He wants to feel again. To be human.

"I knew him," he says quietly.

His master pulls up a chair and sits down in front of him. "Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century." Killing is not a gift. "And I need you to do it one more time. Society's at a tipping point between order and chaos. But tomorrow morning, we're going to give it a push." Give it a push in which direction? He is hardly listening. They're going to wipe him again. "But," his master continues, "You don't do your part, I can't do mine." There it is. He's been compromised. They're going to wipe him. "And HYDRA can't give the world the freedom it deserves." The only freedom is death, and that is not what the world deserves. Surely his master can see that.

"But I knew him," he says, and it comes out as a desperate plea. Please don't make me forget.

His master sighs in disappointment and stands. "Prep him."

Panic seizes him.

"He's been out of cryo freeze too long," one of the scientist says hesitantly. He clings to that hope like a drowning man. Maybe they will change their minds. Maybe they will be kind to him. He doesn't want to forget, to become lost in the world once more.

"Then wipe him and start over." His heart drops. It's going to happen. He is like an animal to them. Worse than an animal. He is a weapon, to be used over and over and over, time and time again. A weapon without feelings, a purpose, a name.

He is pushed roughly against the back of the chair, and the machine begins the humming of a thousand angry bees. A hard metal mouthpiece is slipped between his teeth to channel the pain. But he doesn't struggle. Instead, he focuses on three things: a face, a voice. A name. _His_ name. Bucky.

The machine locks around his arms. He breathes heavily. He had a friend. It's beginning. He doesn't want to forget. The contraption settles around his head, sparking electricity. He doesn't want to forget. Pain, excruciating, unbearable pain, drives into his brain and he yells in agony, eyes open, whole body tensed. He doesn't want to forget. He refuses to forget.

And this time, he doesn't.


End file.
